The Altar Girl: A Prequel

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He snatched me a block away from my apartment.

I’d just driven back to New York after attending my godfather’s funeral in Hartford. A drive to Connecticut usually unwinds me. I crack open the moonroof and the wind sucks out my stress like God’s vacuum cleaner. Beauty surrounds me, along country roads, on rolling hills, and in the sound of silence. Once I reenter New York, however, the parkway twists and turns my insides. Gridlock awaits, at the toll bridge, on the sidewalks, and on the rungs of the corporate ladder. At least that’s how it always was for me.

Until tonight.

I’d sped toward the border of New York as though the Red Army were pursuing me in a fleet of Audis. I couldn’t wait to get out of Connecticut and leave my suspicions behind me. I didn’t really think anyone was following me, but I feared my godfather’s death might not have been an accident. That deduction didn’t bother me when I was among people, at the wake and the reception. Once I’d climbed into my car, however, the silence was too loud, the hills too desolate. I wondered if I’d asked too many questions and who’d heard me. Suddenly, I’d longed for the familiarity of the gridlock.

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